For the Good of the Service
by caudelac
Summary: Submission for 'Now We Tell Of Yultide Treasure' slash project, ValjeanJavert. The Good Inspector has a Theory about the Mayor. Strangely enough, it all works out in the end.


/Note: Les Miserables book-fic. Takes place in Monteuril-sur-Mer, between Fantine's Arrest and Javert's pseudo-resignation. Which, for reasons which shall become plain, does not occur.../  
  
Once the idea occurred to Javert, it seemed not only plausible, but necessary. It worked, after all, with cats. And a convict, as it were, was just another kind of beast.   
  
The principle was fairly simple. The universe of the Prison is a particular kind of microcosm, definable by, among other things, the distinct lack of female influence. Those who are moulded by the prison system, Javert had observed, often cultivated a distinct horror of woman in her natural role. She could be had, but not courted; traded, but not possessed; worshipped, but not loved. He recognised this phenomenon in himself; a woman's body moved him no further than its physical mass might jostle him in a crowd, and then, left him feeling very irritated and slightly nauseated. Marriage, in particular, did not appeal to him as a goal, and the very idea of fatherhood appalled him, or would have, if it had ever crossed his mind. To date, it had not.   
  
What did occur to him, in the days following the Mayor's intervention with the detestable prostitute, was that the Mayor was not married.   
  
Nor had he shown, to Javert's observation, the slightest interest in finding a wife, although given his position in the community, and his considerable fortune, this would have been the most logical step. In fact, the Mayor, in the establishment of his factories had been quite adamant on the point of separation of the sexes. On this point, Javert agreed wholeheartedly; fraternization between the sexes in the workplace was unseemly. In point of fact, he rather admired the Mayor's inflexibility on the matter. He wished only that the man would show the same inflexibility in /all/ matters, that he, Javert, would not be driven to such distressing speculations, nor would he consider such extreme measures as he contemplated now. But he must be sure, he knew-if he were wrong in this matter, and if Monsieur Madeline were not, in fact, an ex-convict and thus, Jean Valjean, and if the Mayor had been denounced as such by Javert's word-he would be finished, utterly and completely. His trap-Javert believed he was nothing if not honest with himself, and that was the word for it-should settle the matter absolutely, and so his mind.  
  
The premise was very simple. In prison, devoid of the natural comforts of a woman's attentions, the prisoners resorted, like dogs, to a perverse sort of mock-love. He, Javert, had seen enough cases of the affliction to know something of its lingo, its manners, and its effects on a man. Even if a prisoner did not take part in these perversities, the proximity to such a culture left its mark. There were symbols-a particular hand gesture, the way a kerchief or a belt was worn, things like that-which became a part of the physical lexicon of such men, even as much as speech. Javert did not speak the dialect, out of his own perfect discipline, but he understood it. If it could be shown that the mayor likewise understood the lingo... well, that would be one more proof, and a telling one. The way to go about discovering it eluded Javert, however, for a time.   
  
He thought, at first, to enlist the aid of a young man of the police, to request him to adopt one of the symbols the prisoners used to advertise themselves, and arrange a way for the Mayor to observe him, while Javert himself could observe the Mayor. But the Mayor, he understood, was a crafty one, and his face was virtually unreadable. No, there would have to be a surer way to gauge his reaction. Javert thought of one, but it was not without risk and, to be sure, personally repellant. Nevertheless, to be right was vastly more important than to be comfortable. He resolved to try it.   
  
One morning, while Monsieur Madeline was in his office, attending to some bureaucratic this or that-the business of Magistrates awed and annoyed Javert by turns, the former when it aided justice, the latter when it delayed it-he was informed that Javert, the inspector of police, wished to speak to him.  
  
"Have him come in," said the Mayor.   
  
Javert entered.  
  
The Mayor remained seated as he was, with his back to Javert. He did not interrupt his work, even at Javert's appropriately respectful greeting. Javert felt the chill in his reception; it probably had to do with the matter concerning the prostitute Fantine. The Mayor was wrong to receive him so coldly on her account, but it served his purposes now. He advanced a few steps and paused, just behind the Mayor's chair. The perhaps pseudo-magistrate did not turn around. Javert steeled his will, and then said,   
  
"Monsieur Mayor, I have a matter of vital importance I wish to discuss with you."  
  
At the moment he said this, he also placed his hand on the back of the Mayor's neck, in the place between the nape and the shoulder-blade. There was a definite pinch to the touch, a hint of the way one might scruff a kitten or a bitch in heat. An animal so touched, particularly in heat, would respond by arching its back, and a man who knew the sign would respond in a similar fashion, perceptible or not. The feeling differed from a shudder or a chill. Javert was well acquainted with the differences in these nuances, having seized, in his time, a fair number of scoundrels by the back of the neck. A man who had been in prison reacted differently than one who had just been for the first time captured.   
  
And Monsieur Madeline stiffened immediately, in the manner of the former.   
  
A terrible joy seized Javert then, paralyzing him for a moment, so that he did not remove his hand, or else, he was not given the opportunity. The Mayor turned, plucking Javert's hand neatly from the back of his neck.   
  
"What do you want, Javert?" He said, fixing Javert with his implacable gaze and his expressive eyes. There was something in that gaze that Javert did not understand. He clasped his hands before him and said,   
  
"There is a matter... a man has been sighted in the area, a man wanted on account of two robberies in the district of Digne, some years back. He is in violation of his parole. I thought that you might wish to be aware of it."  
  
"I see." Said the Mayor. "Can you not take care of the matter yourself? It is one for the police, is it not?"  
  
"Of course, Monsieur Mayor," Javert bowed, "but given your late preference for assisting in the matters of the police yourself, I thought that you might wish this particular case brought to your attention. The man's name is Jean Valjean. You might make a note of it."   
  
"I see." The Mayor leaned back in his chair. The look did not change terribly. Javert saw a mind working, saw relaxed resignation, and saw... worry, perhaps, perhaps fear, perhaps pity? He did not know, but he did not like it.   
  
"What would you have me do, Javert?" He asked, his tone, at least, utterly impassive. Javert understood, suddenly, or at least, believed he understood. The idea revolted him. That was /not/ what he had meant-that he would keep the convict's secret in return for... favors. But then, what better way to be certain of the matter?   
  
Let 's see how far he'll be taken in this, Javert thought, and that will be the more evidence against him. He stepped beside the Mayor's seat, and placed both his hands on his shoulders.   
  
"Get up." He said, not kindly. Madeline did, though languorously, without any hurry.   
  
"I see how it is." He said.  
  
"Do you?" Javert could not help but smile, savagely, as he pressed the Mayor's shoulders, and the Mayor bent. He loosened the other man's trousers first, marveling at the way the other man offered no resistance, exhibiting an inhuman, unnatural patience. But then, there was nothing natural about the situation, was there?  
  
He had more than enough evidence, at this point, and common sense prevailed upon him to cease this experiment, in triumph, and to send at once to the prefecture in Paris with a-slightly edited-memorandum of his discovery. He hesitated, one moment, another. And then a hand, as if it were fashioned of iron, clamped down upon his wrist, and pinned it to the table. Javert sucked in his breath, closed his eyes, and loosened his own trousers as well. He found that he needed to, and that made his hand tremble, even as he arranged matters to their most effective, and as he replaced it upon the collar of his... victim. The moment was a precipice, the falling reluctant, but mutual.  
  
The ensuing moments were nervous and silent, though full of a tense, almost violent energy. These two virgins, created in destitution and moulded by the same system, lost what remained of their innocence dutifully, each lost in his own world of thoughts, strangely parallel. To each, the act in which they were enmeshed seemed suddenly a sort of penance, and filled a nagging void in the knowledge of the world that neither had known existed. They communicated only through Madeleine's-Valjean's, the Inspector was sure-hand on Javert's wrist, and Javert's on the back of the Mayor's neck. The certainty did not satisfy Javert the way it might have even five minutes ago. Satisfaction was not, however, long in coming, albeit in a decidedly different manner than anything Javert could have possibly imagined, in the narrow course of his narrow existence. He bit his lip and dig his nails into the pseudo-Mayor's palm, but he did not cry out.   
  
He was still biting his lip a full minute later, when the mayor turned to face him. Their eyes held for several seconds; Javert could see his reflected in those of, yes, Jean Valjean's. He looked down and away, a thing he had never done to anyone, before.  
  
"Was that all, Javert?" Valjean-Madeleine said.   
  
"For now." He replied.   
  
"We will speak again later," said the Mayor, " I have some matters I must attend to. Good day."  
  
"Yes." Said Javert. He saw to himself swiftly, turned, and, with a stiff, ironic bow, left the office.   
  
By morning the town was abuzz with talk: The Mayor had, quite suddenly, quit the town in the night, saying only that he was meant for a place called Montfermeil, wherever that was.   
  
The Inspector of Police's reaction upon hearing this news was no less curious: he hired a horse, and left immediately after, in the direction of Paris.   
  
Their return several days later, in the company of a small child said to belong to the woman Fantine, did not resolve the matter to anyone's satisfaction. But no clue ever escaped from those two, not in the least. 


End file.
